Page 12 of Ace's Winning Hand
I have to.
CHAPTER 5
QUINCY
It’s not easy keeping my composure while sitting next to the hulking man in leather. His shoulders are large and broad, and the way the leather cut he’s wearing molds around his chest is delicious. And distracting.
His black hair is slicked back from his face where he’s pulled it back into a braid while the sides of his head are shaved closer to his scalp. I can’t even think about how the shirt he’s wearing stretches across his chest.
I’m sure his arms would feel solid around me. If only he didn’t scream bad boy playboy at the top of his damn lungs without even trying.
I don’t need that kind of complication in my life.
He would make a nice distraction.
While that may be true, distractions don’t last. That’s kind of the point. My problems would still be there when I come up for air.
But he was also adorable when he said I was prettier in person than in my movies. There was something vulnerable about his words, a blurted secret he had no intention of sharing but couldn’t hold in. I’m not sure how to take the way my heart flutters as I sit next to him.
Buying-in goes quickly and gives me something to focus on other than the man next to me. Ace.
I’ve watched the shows. I’ve read the books—because there isn’t always a lot to do on set—and I know that’s not his name. But it does make me curious.
I can’t say I’ve ever spent time with a biker. There’s something about him, layers I can sense but can’t see. Something tells me he’s used to being what people expect because it’s easier.
Or maybe I’m just projecting.
I glance at the cards that have landed in front of me and focus on them, not reaching for the drink Donald delivered before slinking away. I’ll probably end up folding but can use the hand to get a read on the people I’m playing with.
Especially Ace. The way he’s almost curled his body around mine, even with some distance between us, feels protective in a way I’m not ready to examine.
One thing I know for sure is that he’s younger than me. Enough to make me wonder just how old he is. It’s hard not to eye him while trying not to make it obvious.
He chuckles and I wonder if he can read my mind. It’s hard to focus on the action at the table, but I force myself to get through the first hand, folding before the river is dealt.
“I have to say,” Ace’s voice easily carries to me, “even though I’m sitting next to you at a poker table, I wouldn’t have pegged you as a player.”
One side of my mouth curls up and our gazes clash. “It’s one of the things my dad taught me. He loves any card game,” I share easily.
My lips press together as I try to hide my surprise that I shared so much with him in only two sentences. What the hell is going on?
“I learned out of necessity. Sometimes you have to place a bet to get what you need,” there’s something dark in his voice, but his words are also laced with pain.
His blue eyes darken the longer we look at each other. The dealer clearing their throat is the only thing that breaks the spell between us. Fucking hell.
This guy is potent. There’s something about him, a depth under what he allows everyone to see.
I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry even though I don’t reach for the drink Donald delivered. Still.
And I won’t. Because I don’t trust him.
Once we both look at our hands and place our bets, I can’t help but look at Ace out of the corner of my eye. He’s close, but I wish he was closer. It’s not a feeling I’m used to when around men.
I usually prefer they keep their distance.
But right now, I’m craving the heat I know would be coming off his body.
When I push after the flop, the man on the other side of Ace folds. Another two at the table, who both seem more interested in the women at the bar than their cards, follow. I bet and Ace raises without batting an eye.
